Downhill Spiral
by lady cambria
Summary: [SSX 3] A horrid crash leads to Zoe Payne's removal from the SSX circuit for winter 2005, and an alternate's arrival at Triple Peaks for the SSX winter circuit. No one welcomes Bree Sheppard, least of all her suitemate. Can Bree win it all anyway?


The day it happened, it had seemed like nothing could go wrong. She had woken up with the dawn as always, and watched the awesome power of the sun rising over triple peaks to bathe the valley in soft golden light. She had eaten the same breakfast she had been eating on the circuit for three years – half a bagel with a dab of butter and smothered in grape jelly, and a cup of black acidic coffee to get the bones moving. She had superstitiously laced up her left boot first, then the right, but tied the right before the left. She had even gone so far as to put on her thick gloves before buckling into the bindings – no easy feat, even for a pro. But once she had won three races in a row after putting on her gloves first, and she wasn't going to take any chances tempting fate today.

Triple Peaks had been beautiful. Even though she had always been opposed to the idea of the circuit finding a one-mountain home for the winter, she had to admit that SSX had picked well. She had ridden the lift up to the qualifier trail, Snow Dream, and hopped off all ready to go. She had unfortunately stopped just short of the gate, but Moby had come up from behind and pushed her so she didn't have to step out of the bindings. She had passed through the two qualifiers with no trouble. She just had to finish in the top three of the final.

Zoe Payne had watched the light carefully. She had wanted to be first one out of the gate, to show these losers just who was the best. Her opponents were some unsavory characters – Griff Simmons. Elise Riggs. Allegra Sauvagess. Viggo Rolig. Mac Fraser. She despised every last one of them. The tweeny-bopper was too cocky. Riggs was just an ice-cold bitch. Allegra would go as far as to knock down any of her beloved 'brahs' if it meant a win. Viggo was a pansy. Mac was still in puberty though eighteen years old.

In this first race of the season, Zoe had been determined to prove to the five of them that even though she hadn't traipsed to Europe for the spring and fall slopes, she still had her edge. But looking back on the race, she saw that in reality, nothing had gone right. Her gate had sprung open, but it was a split second before she realized it. She had fallen two seconds behind the leader way before the first checkpoint, taking a spill around an icy curve. Even after she had caught up to the tailer, Viggo, she should have seen it coming. Something always happened to the one who fell too far behind, then made too spectacular of a comeback. True underdog stories were nothing like their retellings.

She passed by Viggo, throwing a taunt his way. She skipped a jump and opted instead to pull ahead of both Mac and Griff, who were too busy showing off all their tricks for the crowds_. Damn young kids, trying to show off in a b'cross race_, she had thought, mentally scoffing at them. She saw Allegra before her, too far ahead. Zoe cut through a patch of trees and over a steep cliff face, dropping nearly 20 feet to the next bit of ground. She had surpassed Allegra and was hot on Elise's tail.

She should have known she was going too fast for the light freestyle board, that she should have chanced it on her new alpine one, even though she hadn't had the time to properly break it in. But Zoe just shook off the feeling of foreboding and crouched lower. _Gut instincts always fuck up the best achievements,_ she told herself. She shouted something out at Elise, who ignored it and instead flew over a jump into a misty. Zoe again skipped the jump ramp and stayed close to the ground, hoping to cover enough distance to be in front of Elise when she landed. Her luck paid off; Elise came down some ten yards behind her.

But the powder patch in front of Zoe came as a complete surprise. She had been looking over her shoulder, watching in triumph as Elise fell behind. She had been unaware of it until, at a clocked speed of over 60 miles per hour, she had caught an edge in the patch and veered off course into the trees lining the trail. The crash was unexpected; the outcome never known to Zoe herself. She blacked out upon impact with the white birch she hit. She didn't wake up until the hospital. The last sight she remembered was the blur of Elise's red leather jacket as she flew past, down the hill. The last sound was the roar of the crowd chanting her enemy's name.

And the tally of injuries was extensive – left leg fractured in two places, to be held together with metal pins; shattered left wrist, dislocated right shoulder, and a mild concussion. She had an arm sling and wasn't even allowed to sit up fully, nor could she feed herself. She wasn't really even supposed to talk or move her head. She did it anyway, because she was terribly stubborn. Zoe Payne sighed from her hospital bed, cursing herself for her idiocy. She looked out the window, to the hospital courtyard, and smiled bitterly. It had snowed the night before, and the whole patio was covered in white.

-----------------

She hadn't ever been expecting the phone call. But when it rang, she answered.

"Hello?"

"Are you ready?"

"For the season?"

"Yeah. One of 'em's out until spring. Can you do it?"

"Yeah… yeah. I can be there tomorrow."

"Save your airfare receipt. It'll be reimbursed. There will be someone picking you up at the airport. Call from the car."

_Click_. And the phone call was over. She hopped on the first plane to Kalmoops, BC. From there it was a 45-minute drive north-east to Triple Peaks. Her new home.

-------------------

In the dark room, the scene barely visible with people milling around her and screaming madly, Bree Sheppard just stood still, breathing hard. On all sides they tried to find friends, pushed between each other, trying to get somewhere other than where they currently stood. The scene was chaotic, to say the least, but she just tried to catch her breath before anything else happened. There was a bit of blood snaking down the left side of her mouth. She licked it away with a flick of her parched tongue. She was in surprisingly good shape, considering. Her hair had fallen down, but she quickly tied it back up with an extra hair band. A very goth guy all in black, his mascara and eyeliner running down his cheeks from the heat, bumped into her. He tried to apologize. She shrugged him off, offering no forgiveness but also not issuing a challenge. The floor was slippery and sticky, as was her skin, doused liberally in sweat – hers, other peoples'.

Suddenly the spotlights came back on. There were the musicians, walking back to their places on the stage. She was glad she had come to the concert instead of twiddling her thumbs in the hotel room. The rioting began again, and Bree felt herself pushed from behind, swept off her feet and crushed into the poor kid before her. He looked only to be about thirteen or fourteen, and gave her the finger. She only had time to roll her eyes before a guy twice her size landed on her head, snapping her neck back. She struggled, but by using all her available strength, managed to push the asshole off her body.

She saw the lead singer reach for the microphone. Encore time. Grinning to herself, Bree turned away from them, facing the crowd behind her. A mosh pit had already opened. The guy with the mic said a few words and they started up the music again.

The kids in the mosh pit went wild. She was only three rows away from the opening, where fans were enthusiastically two-stepping and thrashing. She pushed between two hulking guys in their late teens, one of whom issued her a skeptical stare and a shake of his head. Yeah, she was used to the guys thinking she was nuts. _But girls like to mosh just as much as guys_, Bree reminded herself. She grinned maniacally at the skeptical dude, and kept on pushing until she stood just on the edge of the space. Just as the chorus of her favorite song began, a space cleared, just big enough for her to throw herself into.

The dance was meaningless, just flailing arms and kicking feet. She didn't care when she punched some young gun in the arm. She laughed to herself when he kicked her back. She just kept on going, but the jerk didn't like being ignored. His temper got the best of him; he pushed her, hard. She rocked off balance and flew into the people on the edge of the crowd. They pushed her back toward the kid who was starting shit, and Bree used the momentum from them to speed up and basically tackle him against the other wall of the mosh pit. She wasn't laughing anymore. As he flew to the ground, landing on his backside, the kid let a punch fly at Bree's face. It caught her in the right eye socket.

_With fists raised high in tightened knots_

Pain exploded into her skull, and she felt a drop of blood gather in the corner of her eye. It stung horribly but she drew her fist back and pummeled the kid in the jaw. Not only did her fist make impact, but his head also chose that moment to crash into the wood-plank floor. There was a reverberation as his head bounced off the ground. His eyes grew narrower and he reached up to her with both hands, intention grabbing her round the neck.

_The room explodes and now this blood is on your hands_

But suddenly, she was getting pulled up off him – one of the guys she had pushed past, he had her by the arms and was both gently and forcefully restraining her, shaking his head 'no' and tugging her back to the sidelines. Bree screamed an intelligible curse at the asshole decorating the mosh pit floor. His friends, having rushed over to referee the fight, picked him up and gave him a push in her direction. Bree's eyes opened wide with the fear that he'd come after her, but in just a split second the sight of the jerk disappeared, to be replaced by someone else who had entered the mosh pit, shirtless, with crazy spiked hair, way too many piercings and really weird tattoos.

_And there is no time for a second chance_

He was wearing only a pair of dark-wash jeans with a brown leather belt, and huge leather boots. Bree could see a wife-beater, soaked through with sweat, tucked into his belt. He had harsh, angular features, gray eyes that were so light-colored they were creepy, and scars all over his well-toned arms and torso. He stank a little bit of spiced rum, and the look in his eye was downright terrifying. His evil smile made Bree's own devilish grin look positively angelic. She was drawn to him. She was also embarrassed by the fact that she found his obvious lack of sanity, coupled with an odd desire to find out more about the intriguing scars that laced his body, to be a very attractive combination.

_To paint my face with blood and tears and cover up_

_In an open book that no one reads_

_A misspelled word that no one knows_

_You stole the rain._

But Bree couldn't look away – she was enraptured of this newcomer. His style was off-kilter and off-balance, but it wasn't offending. It was downright amazing, as was his stamina – he refused to be pushed, dragged, shoved or otherwise removed form the mosh pit until the encore was over. As the overheads came on, flooding the venue with fluorescent pinkish light, the guy looked her straight in the eye, his eyes smoldering with a devilish mystique and his lips curving into a smirk. Bree found herself caught in his gaze; when she looked away, embarrassed that she had held his gaze so long, she shook her head slightly, a wry grin on her face. He put the rest of them to shame. He looked familiar.

It wasn't until after she had walked out the side door of the concert hall after the encore that she realized just who the mystery thrasher had been. He was famous, after all. Famous for being a psycho strapped to a snowboard.

Bree stopped short in her tracks, looked skyward to the smog-filled atmosphere, hazy with reflecting light from the surrounding city, all the stars hidden by the pollution. "Fuck," she whispered to herself. "_Fuck_." She had just met one of _them_. In a mosh pit. And he had shown her up. Fuck.

--------------------

Lyrics from "Concealer," written by Geoff Rickly, performed by Thursday. Copyright 2001.


End file.
